I know those eyes
by Tari Roo
Summary: Post Season 2. Life inside SONA changes a lot of things, but some remain the same. Scofield and Mahone oneshot.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Someone elses.

I know those eyes.

A/N: Post Season 2, POV-one shot, from inside SONA.

_I know those eyes. Intense. Hiding a thousand whirling cogs of thought._

_I've stared at those eyes, face, chin, nose, cheeks for so long that I know them better than my own._

_It's not surprising though, considering I barely recognise the man I glimpse in car windows, shop fronts, cracked and broken mirrors. That man, the man I see, he's dead._

_I see dead people._

_All the time._

_A line. An over-quoted, mocked and serialised line. But true nonetheless, for me. The faces of the dead stare at me, every day. I close my eyes… and … the light fades from their eyes, knees collapse, bodies fall, blood pools and I stare. Stare into their eyes and watch. _

_The dead man who looks back at me … me, myself, my refection - his eyes are cold, chilling, condemning. He knows. He waits. Waits for me. Waits for me to acknowledge him. What I was. What I hoped to be. What I can never be._

_Windows of the soul._

_Deep bottomless depths. Snapshots into hell and fire and damnation. _

_Me? My eyes?_

_I don't know – I haven't stopped long enough to look. Afraid. Unwilling. _

_Besides, I see what I am in other's eyes. _

_Monster._

_Killer._

_Stranger._

_It's all the same, all the same. _

_I would almost hate those accusing, mocking, hating eyes save that they at least look at me, even if just to hate. It's those I cannot see, who slip from my gaze, who refuse to meet mine. They are the hardest. I don't really want to see what they think of me, but I remember how they used to look at me. With love. With respect. With hope._

_And now. Nothing. _

_Perhaps its better this way. No connection, no judgement, no need. Not mine, not theirs._

_But his eyes. Those eyes. The ones locked on mine now._

_They interest me. Intrigue is a better word. _

_Determination. I have studied those eyes and the man behind them for months. Years it seems, yet in truth only months. I've seen a gambit of emotions flicker across them – he's not as inscrutable as he thinks. Fear. Hate – of me, of what I stand for, of others like me. Love – of her, for him. Hope. _

_He is fully aware of the effect he has – on people, on women, on men. Uses it to his advantage, plays them, hurts them. Twitch of the lips here, deep soft voice there. A touch. A whisper and they fold. They follow. Leave doors open, unlocked. Let him slip away and long for his return, follow again. _

_And at a turn, he's steel and iron and concrete. Unforgiving, unrelenting, as merciless as a storm. _

_Is it a façade? A front? To keep safe what is soft and malleable and open to hurt? In part, I suppose. _

_He's got a conscience the size of Alaska, or Mexico, or heck, the world. It eats at him, all those things that he's done, done to survive. We have that in common too. And even though he's mortal, prone to error, human like all of us, his determination, his love, his unbending will sets him apart._

_And that you can see in his eyes. He will not be moved. He will do what needs to be done. Just like me._

_And now?_

_Now, we sit, so close I could hear him breath if I tried. Afters miles and months and wanting nothing more than to bury him, so I could walk away, now, he's here. I'm here. And we're not going anywhere. _

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The old saying goes: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

It's usually very true, right up until you figure out that the enemy of your enemy is an enemy for a fairly good reason and he will probably end up killing you, or something worse. If there is anything worse than death and there is – trust me on it.

There are quite a few things worse than death in my opinion and at the top of my list at the moment is: South American prisons.

There should be a saying about South American prisons – I'm sure there are in Spanish, but right now, my saying goes something like this: The enemy who chased you across a continent, tried to kill you more times than you'd like to recall and will probably end up killing you anyway, is your best friend in the world, when the both of you are stuck in a South American prison. Because two gringos with no friends, no links, no ties to anything but themselves, need to stick together – or end up worse than dead.

So, it's a long saying and kinda situation-specific, my situation specific to be precise but it doesn't change the facts. South American prisons change a lot of facts. Like how being a former-FBI agent means nothing. And that being one of the most wanted men in the States means diddly squat in here. So former-FBI agents and fugitives become allies – because the consequences of not being allies, of not having someone to watch your back? Well…

You'd be surprised, even if the both of you are outnumbered 3 to 1, cons will still prefer the single and the solitary weakling to pick on. Two of you together – well, you still get picked on, just not so much.

Gringos in here are rare, but not unheard of, and they generally end up getting a raw deal – really raw. Sona makes Fox River look like a picnic in the park in the middle of July. Sona is an entirely new sort of hell. And if two gringos together are protection enough to escape the majority of the crap that gets handed out, three gringos together would logically improve our odds even more.

If being in prison in Panama is worse than death, then right now, Bellick is wishing he were dead. Our little gringo duo might have been a trio, save that neither of us dare challenge the men that 'guard' the tiny cell in which Bellick currently resides. His screams and pleas occasionally reach the tiny corner we have claimed, fought for and defended. Mahone seems unperturbed by them, never stopping his unending scan for possible threats.

Me? Do they bother me?

Sure. Sure they do. There's just nothing I can do about it – yet.

We have never spoken about it – Mahone and I. Spoken about how I'm the reason he's in here, about how he would, but for me, be somewhere else a hell of lot better than Sona right now. No words have been spoken, and I haven't apologised. He did let me know his dissatisfaction with his present accommodation with a hard upper cut that spilt my lip, but to his credit, he only hit me once and … well, I let him.

So now, he watches my back and I watch his. One of us is always awake, ready to fight off an attack, even in the smallest hour of the morning.

It's his turn right now. I'm supposed to be sleeping. But I can feel eyes watching me, his and others. I know why I'm in here and I know why Mahone is sticking with me and not Bellick.

I got out of Fox River – and now I'm supposed to get out of Sona and if Mahone has his way, with him in tow. So, me not sleeping is ok with him, because that means I'm planning, right? Planning a way out, an escape, a path to freedom.

And I suppose I am – in a way.

Just one small problem.

The only way out that I can see – is in a cheap pine box.

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_He's not even pretending to sleep, not that I blame him. I know that my thoughts and dreams are unpleasant enough to avoid sleep at times, and while he may not have as much blood on his hands as I, there is enough for interrupted slumber._

_I cannot help but check on him, even though I know he hasn't moved since I last checked. I would have felt it, had he even changed the rhythm of his breathing into real sleep, I would have known, we are that close. Still, I cannot help it._

_And he knows but does not acknowledge my glances. He simply stares – at what I cannot say, his thoughts mostly likely far away._

_It was a near thing – this time. _

_Usually our numbers, an entire 2 are enough, but not today. Today a price was paid. He lost his shirt in the scuffle, his sneakers long gone and he almost lost his jeans too. They know by now that I am the better fighter, the more deadly, but Michael surprised them today, surprised me. _

_But he paid the price._

_There were too many, even for me. _

_Its all about power and control – who has it and who doesn't. I'm not too sure where we stand in the whole social order, probably on the outskirts, tolerated curiosities, too worthless to bother unless for entertainment value._

_Well, they got their laughs today. _

_They'd heard about, seen, guessed at the tattoos and wanted to have a closer look – wanted to the see the 'gringo's' pretty pictures. They got more of a fight than anticipated, but in the end, they got what they wanted, and more._

_One of them, a big guy with ugly teeth – hell, they were all big with ugly teeth, but this guy took exception to one of Scofield's tattoos. Too similar to a well-known Peruvian gang's tag. So, it had to come off. _

_I think between us, we understand enough Spanish to get by, and when that Massive Ugly grunted out his demand, Scofield froze. They already had him pinned – the better to see the tattoos and I think he was afraid that something else was about to happen – a different sort of violation. _

_I knew he had a pretty high pain threshold, after getting so much needle work done, but hell, I don't know if I would have been able to stay as still as he did, especially as it was a trembling crack addict wielding the razor that sliced through skin and ink. _

_Once the cross-bearing coffin was gone, they seemed to lose interest and left – with only a few departing kicks and jibes. Shirtless, shaken and no doubt in pain, Scofield retreated into our corner. He kept watch for me as I feigned sleep too. Maybe it was the nearness of his call, or lingering shock, or … something indefinable but obvious – to me at least, but he seemed very – small. Withdrawn. Uncertain._

_He has always been so certain, so forthright, so determined… to see an element, a spark of doubt, does not ease my mind at all. I do not care for this glimpse of human frailty. I am depending on him and he knows it. I'll keep him safe and he gets me out. It is unspoken – but very much understood. _

_I don't like the look of defeat in his eyes._

_Not at all._

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End file.
